


Fool for Love

by miraphora



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Dancing, Drabble, F/M, Fluff, Self-Indulgent, is this what they call idfic, my love affair with the sea
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-24
Updated: 2015-10-24
Packaged: 2019-09-15 09:53:18
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,133
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16931052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/miraphora/pseuds/miraphora
Summary: A snippet from a college AU for Hawk of the Marches that I never really got around to writing.





	Fool for Love

**Author's Note:**

> You might as well play Lord Huron's "Fool for Love" in the background while you read this.

He was glad he’d come, even though he didn’t know where this was going. 

The moon was huge and gold, casting a rippling river of light across the restless waves. The lights of the pier were far enough away that they didn’t interfere with the quiet peace on this segment of beach, and there were no high rises or hotels here like the beaches he remembered from childhood vacations. The hint of a chill hung in the air, but the breeze was gentle, still carrying the warmth of the end of summer. It was *so* quiet here, even with the soft sound of music from the radio by the window. So unlike the downtown bustle around the campus and grad housing. He felt like he could breathe here, could relax, could hear himself think.

 _Don’t get used to it_ , he reminded himself.  _This isn’t your life_. 

There was a sound behind him as the simple Orlesian doors opened, and a soft creak of the plank floor as Mira stepped back out. Cullen started to turn, but she was already at his side–he was starting to learn her, the way you’d know she was coming if she wanted you to hear her, but otherwise she’d appear beside you as if from thin air. She was nearly always in flipflops or bare feet–or if it was cold or she needed to be in the dirt, a pair of soft-soled boots.

She set a cut-glass tumbler with two fingers of amber liquid on the railing by his hand, her body aligned behind his–too close, so close, so warm he could feel the brush of her breasts against his broad back. She was tactile; he’d seen her with her friends, but nothing like she was in her pursuit of him, always too close, touching in ways he couldn’t anticipate or defend against.

But she could also be silent, in a way other women had not been, and that lulled him more than her liquor and her honey eyes and her constant touching.

She stood next to him at the porch railing, her own glass filled higher than his–she was a drinker but not an alcoholic–he’d never seen her with a drink before afternoon, except at brunch, which he was learning was some strange tradition outside the normal rules of etiquette and decency.  _Marchers have this charming “work hard, play hard” philosophy_ , Dorian had commented to him once, watching him watch Mira.

She took a long, slow sip, but said nothing, her gold eyes trained on the ocean before them, the soft susurrus of waves inching up the shore, the faint hiss of the wind in the dunes and sea grass. Her hair was curling softly, falling around her ears. She was in a rumpled linen shirt, unbuttoned lower than would have been decent if she’d been anywhere but her own porch, her long legs mostly exposed by her shorts, and bare feet.

He didn’t understand how she wasn’t chilled, and he had his arm around her shoulders before he could think about it, one hand curled around her far shoulder, pulling her gently into his side. She came easily, never resistant to his touch, and tilted her head, taking another slow draw on her bourbon.

He could see the slightest curve of a contented smile in the corner of her lips. Her face was washed in moonlight reflected off the ocean and the sands, stark and round, her broad cheekbones highlighted, her soft lips–the flicker of her tongue as she licked the last traces of the smokey bourbon from her lips.

Cullen leaned down, his hand on her shoulder coming up to curve against her jaw and chin, tilting her head up to him so he could set his lips gently against hers. He couldn’t help himself, and she didn’t do a thing to stop him, her body turning into his, her lips opening under his caress.

It was one of those slow, tender, lingering kisses that felt no urgency to go anywhere, and ended on a caress. He could taste the bourbon on her–smokey and intense, a little sweet. Her glass was held lightly between her fingers over his shoulder, suspended, as she slid her arms around him. She was tall and fit against him well, and his hands rested clasped at the small of her back, thumbs stroking idly. 

Her hips guided him back, her bare feet stepping delicately between his, and he was confused for a moment, until the music from the radio bled through and matched the 1…2…3-4…5-6 roll of her hips and her shuffling footsteps. Her lips curved under his in a smile as he started to follow her lead, backing away from her advance, her body easy to read pressed so close to his. 

She laughed softly, throaty and tender, and pulled back from him, taking another deep drink of her bourbon before reaching out to balance the glass on the railing and take his hands in both of hers. “Dance with me.”

A faint flush crawled across his cheeks and the back of his neck, his fingers twitching against hers. “I don’t know how.”

“Bullshit, darlin’. I’ve seen your footwork. C’mon.” She had both of his hands in hers, arms straight but relaxed, and her bare feet shuffled forward and then back, her hips swaying.

“I’ll step on your toes.” His protest fell on deaf ears…and his feet were already moving, following her wherever she led. Maker help him, he was done for.

It wasn’t like any dance he’d ever seen in the country–she took shuffling, mincing, hip-rolling little steps toward him, then retreated, and rather than follow, he was expected to mirror her. 

Her gold eyes were fixed on his, her lips spreading in a wide smile of joy. “It’s like the sea, the way the waves come up the shore and then retreat, until the tide creeps up. You feel it?”

Her fingers squeezed his, and the next time she came close, she kept going, shuffling herself beneath his arm, turning herself and reorienting them. When the song ended, something softer and slower began playing, and Cullen, trying not to think too hard about the way he moved with her easier than he’d ever moved with anyone in his life, released one of her hands, taking the other and turning her once–twice–until she was pressed against him again. 

She laughed, throwing her head back, everything in her filled with joy. Her hands slid around his shoulders, his slid back around her hips, and they swayed together, while the sea crept up the shore and the golden moon inched across the sky and the breeze brushed tender fingers through their hair and across their skin.  


End file.
